


Three Sheets to The Wind

by pdorkaa



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Black Sails, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, I Don't Even Know, Multiple Crossovers, Pirates, Sea Shanties, Swearing, Timeline What Timeline, so many sea shanties
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-13 11:23:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15363549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pdorkaa/pseuds/pdorkaa
Summary: Edward Kenway finds Captain Flint with a proposition. A suicide mission, rather, and for what? To meddle with life and death once again, based on the principle that nothing is true - and everything is permitted.The worst of it all is that the two of them cannot pull it off without the help of the most unpredictable, untrustworthy pirate on the back of the seven seas.





	Three Sheets to The Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Jack has the Pearl, Edward has Adé as his quartermaster, and Flint has his hair. canon doesn't apply to those three things.
> 
> *
> 
> set during: early S3 of Black Sails, where John already has his peg leg and Billy's still on the ship, after Pirates of Caribbean: On Stranger Tides, and towards the end of (or after the events of) Black Flag.  
>  Blackbeard died as he did in PotC4, Vane died as he did in AC4.

There are four of the most notorious pirates in the Caribbean that one should never want to cross.

Petty people like Jack Rackham, like Barbossa; there aren't any consequences to be feared there, endless squabbling but no bite. There are strong captains, there are stronger ships, and there are pirates who kill at the sign of the slightest insubordination. 

But these four - their names themselves instill fear, people only talk about them in hushed tones and with the highest reverence. Well, that is true now for the two of them, it had been true for the third, and the fourth, well, the fourth has never been much for appearances. 

First came Blackbeard, of course, the most notorious of pirates in history. Cruel and unforgiving, unyielding like the black rocks that hem the sea. Cold, but never said to be barbaric - you see, if one would have said that, they wouldn't have lived to see another day.

Edward Kenway, one moment in the shadows, the next he's a blade at your throat, and he's the shadows again - you cannot ever know if he's a ghost, an apparition, or a living being with them cruelest of smiles. The silent footsteps echo the silent plotting, and he's but a whisper of the sharp metal as he is gone again.

James Flint, a tall outcrop, endlessly battered by pelting rain. He's the storms of the sea, he's the rage of the ocean, so tightly contained it washes away at him from the inside. Hard lines on his face, a perpetually clenched jaw, and a resolve stronger than a thousand men - and it is the banner only, not the man himself, that sends the Spaniards and the English running.

The fourth of them, the fourth of the most notorious pirates in the whole wide Caribbean, is currently snoring face-down on a table, a single dreadlock fluttering over his nose with every exhale. Unbeknownst to him, he has already been liberated of all his coins, but it is likely he isn't going to care much for the fact when he wakes. If he wakes, that is.

Ah, the charm of Tortuga.

* * *

"Sails!"

John hobbles over to where Billy stands with the glass lifted to his eyes, and elbows him in the side. Billy hands him the spyglass.

"It's the Jackdaw" he huffs, turning to face inwards, arms crossed over his chest. 

John grimaces. "Yeah" he agrees, lowering the glass and shifting his weight off his peg leg.

"Gentlemen?" Flint steps up to them, and as usual, he is as unexpected as if the sea itself had conjured him then and there. It's an uncanny feeling, and even if John knows better than to buy into the act of the barely human and all the more ruthless Captain Flint, he has to admit he's not entirely resistent to it.

"The Jackdaw, Cap'n" Billy nods in the general direction of the other ship. "Headed straight this way."

"Hoisting their banner high" Flint murmurs as he squints through the spyglass. "Hoist ours" he says. "I assume Kenway wants to talk."

As the other ship draws nearer, there is a general unrest growing amongst the men. John limps from bow to stern and then stern to bow, listening in on the opinions of the crew, offering up the odd encouraging line where needed. Not that he's much confident himself, but the crew doesn't need to know that.

The Jackdaw drops her anchor not far from the Walrus, and John thinks that this much distance isn't respectful at all. It's a haughty tilt of Kenway's chin, nothing more.

A whistle pierces the air. "Launch!"

Indeed, there is a launch approaching from the starboard bow. Kenway, the fuck, positioned the Jackdaw just so he has the advantage if things turn ugly here. He sat his ship opposite to the Walrus, bows pointing sterns and sterns pointing bows, and at an angle so he has the advantage of the wind should he make a hasty departure. John murmurs a set of profanities, and sets about finding Mr De Groot to maneuver them into a slightly more favourable position, if for nothing else, then to get out of the line of the fire of at least some of Kenway's guns.

The launch reaches them, and Edward Kenway and his quartermaster - something starting on a, but John honestly doesn't remember - are quick to step on board, so much more so than their two oarsmen. Their steps are silent across the planks, and their gazes are wary, but their posture is relaxed enough John finds some small measure of comfort in it. He doesn't fail to notice, though, that both rest a hand on the hilts of their swords with an ease that speaks of the utmost confidence even in the face of the entire Walrus crew.

"Edward Kenway" Flint grins humourlessly and clasps the other man on the arm.

"Flint" Kenway grunts, and strides towards the captain's cabin without so much as an invitation from Flint.

Flint draws up an amused eyebrow at John and Billy, and follows Kenway and his quartermaster into his own cabin.

John itches to follow, and apparently so does Billy from the way he's nervously shifting his weight from one leg to the other. Flint, with his uncanny sense of people, raises a hand to stay them without turning back at all.

"Huh" John huffs. "Must be really important" he says, looking over at Billy. The other just grunts, a sense of foreboding radiating off him in waves.

John doesn't like this one more bit than Billy does, but he's a fair bit more skilled to rein himself in. The entire crew doesn't need to know that the two people they're looking to are nervous wrecks about this, he reasons as he gets out of their line of sight - coincidentally picking a position just outside the Captain's door. 

 

Edward waits, leaning against the doorpost until Flint settles behind his desk and gestures for them to sit. Adéwalé does, drapes an arm over the back of the chair to keep an eye on his Captain.

Kenway starts pacing up and down, raking his hands through his sandy blond hair before he turns to Flint with a decisive step.

"I need Turner."

Flint regards him for a moment, narrowing his eyes, wondering how many seamen might be called Turner in this corner of the Caribbean alone.

"Turner who?" He settles for asking. He thinks he knows the answer, and he already doesn't like the answer, but he's willing to play along for a moment.

Adéwalé snorts, not in the least bit convinced by Flint's impassive expression. Kenway, like as not, also knows Flint knows which Turner they're talking about, but it seems Kenway is willing to play the game for a bit as well.

"I need Will Turner and his Flying Dutchman." Kenway says. No games, then.

Flint leans his elbows on the desk and folds his hands into one another. He regards the man in front of him from under his brows for a long moment. There's really no question Kenway seems set on this course, so to speak, and if it involves the Dutchman, it would be better sitting on his side of things. There only remains one question.

"The fuck do you need the Dutchman for?"

Edward chuckles, his smile grim. "I need to resurrect Blackbeard."

Flint throws himself back in his seat, running a hand over his beard, another through his hair, tugging it free of its tail. He feels a nerve twitch in his face, and he knows this is very close to the expression he wears when he's playing the scourge of the seven seas. He doesn't care.

What the fuck would Kenway need Blackbeard for? Why the fuck would Kenway come to him with this?

He needs to maneuver this very carefully. This is a venture he doesn't want to get the wrong side on, but he also doesn't want to risk himself - and his ship - for a fucking suicide mission.

"Sit" he says, and perhaps surprisingly, Kenway obliges, throwing himself on the chair next to his quartermaster's. He's not idiotic enough to throw a leg up on the corner of the desk, but from what Flint sees, it's a near thing. "I'm gonna need a hell of a lot more than that" he continues, snatching the bottle of rum from the windowsill and taking a hearty swig, offering it to Kenway next. "Start talking."

And Kenway does. By the time he finishes, Flint knows there's an unappreciative line marring his face, twisting his mouth, and his hands grip the arms of the chair so hard his knuckles are white.

"Tell me one good reason I shouldn't throw you off my ship right now. Tell me one good reason I shouldn't blow the Jackdaw to shreds." His teeth hurt from clenching them too hard. "Blackbeard, dead, is good fucking riddance."

Kenway sucks in his cheeks, contemplating his answer for a moment. "Now, there ain't many captains I can turn to. Teach was a friend of mine, and I'd have you remember that. But... He took a piece of information with him that is absolutely vital to the survival of the concept of freedom."

"Get Vane. He'd be more than happy to help."

"Last I saw of'im, he was killin' hogs on some outback island for insubordination. Almost put a bullet in my head, too. Went mad when Rackham marooned us and took off on my ship. He's dead by now."

Flint snorts. "Good riddance, once again" he says, and Edward grins.

"Aye. I need you and your crew for this. You'll be the only ones not swayed by Blackbeard's talk."

Flint settles back in his chair, running through what little options he has.

Adéwalé speaks up then, his voice smooth and rumbling quietly around the cabin. "I trust you know about the Assassin Brotherhood" is all he says, and it has Flint clenching his jaw again. Oh, he's heard. "We... Have a few acquaintances in common" Adéwalé finishes delicately.

Fuck. If the Assassins are taking part in this, and it's not just Kenway's fucking wet dream, then it's likely he'd be much better off on their side of things. A lot more dangerous, true, but a surer bet that he doesn't get sunk in the aftermath. Also... If the Assassins are taking part in this, they know everything about what James Flint is and what James Flint isn't. No use for charades.

"It is only the information you want?" Flint asks, and Kenway nods.

"You don't need to resurrect the bastard for that."

Kenway senses he's on board, and grins. "No. We just have to find him, aye?"

And who better to find him than William Turner. William Turner, who only knows where Blackbeard is because he was the one in the first place to ferry him to the fucking afterlife. There only remains one problem.

"And how do you intend to find William Turner?"

"Well, my friend" Kenway snags the bottle and takes three gulps, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. "There's only two people I know of that might know his location."

Flint sighs, and stands up. "Mister Silver" he calls, and surely enough, the door opens quicker than it should have. The rat bastard, Flint thinks, but it's half-hearted at best. Silver has his back, and in this situation, that's nothing less he would ask for, and nothing more he can ask for. "Set a course for Tortuga. Trim the tops and raise the t'gallants, if the wind is favourable enough" he says, turning back to his guests already.

"The Jackdaw will follow" Kenway says as he stands up, and he looks entirely satisfied with himself. Likely they'd have been frogmarched to Tortuga whether or not he agreed to this fucking suicide mission of a trip.

"You know he cannot be trusted" Flint sends a sideways glance to Kenway.

"Aye" the other says, chuckling. "But he's said somethin' once that stuck with me. You see, you can rely on him being untrustworthy, and that is far safer than coming to trust him to be betrayed."

"I should trust him because I cannot trust him" Flint levels Kenway with a flat look. His plan is risky, and Flint thinks it's an unnecessary risk to have it hinge upon the most wayward sailor the sea can dredge up.

"Is that not how you came by your best quartermaster as of late?" Adéwalé chuckles, rising from his seat.

Point taken, Flint supposes, and escorts his guests back to the launch. This'll be a fucking piece of work to sell to his crew.

"How much of it did you hear?" Flint asks John Silver as they're both squinting at the retreating longboat with their best amiable expressions.

Silver looks offended, if anything. "Why, everything, Captain" he says.

"Good. Sell it to the crew."

"I am supposed to tell the crew that we are sailing right in front of Edward Kenway's three dozen guns, including fucking mortars, because we're going to Tortuga, and for what? Oh, it's not the women and the booze, it's for getting Jack Sparrow to help us find Will Turner to take us to the other side? Are you mental?"

"You're the quartermaster. They don't need the details. Just get them to cooperate." Flint heads back toward his cabin. He has a lot of thinking to do. A hand on his arm stops him.

"They do need shore leave to be even remotely comfortable with this, I hope you know that."

"Do what you will" Flint says. What he doesn't say is that he trusts Silver to handle the matter exquisitely, with the crew thinking it cannot possibly be better for them. From the glance he gets from Silver, he can tell he is not pleased, but he heard Kenway speak same as him, and Flint knows Silver wouldn't miss this for the life of him.

 

A tune carries over from the Jackdaw. Billy snorts as he recognises it, and John tilts his head to listen in for a moment. The Walrus crew has already picked it up, and the song rises on the back of the wind as the crew times their movements to the rhythm of it.

They're on the last stretch of their journey towards Tortuga, and during the past days John's heard Kenway's crew sing more than they speak. It's doing wonders for the Walrus' efficiency, so he can't complain, and the men seem to enjoy it a lot more than without. Their latest shantyman, Mr Brown, if John recalls correctly, has suffered his fate in taking their latest prize, and John has yet to replace him - maybe he should be taking that a lot more seriously.

"Make her run, you lime juice squeezes - running down to Cuba!"

"We're not even going to Cuba" John comments, musing over the nonsensical lyrics. Who comes up with these?

"Weigh, me boys, to Cuba! Running down to Cuba!"

"Close enough" Billy grins, the tune already on his lips. "Keeps up the morale" he adds and whistles. That it does, John thinks.

"Musical bunch, Kenway's crew."

"They hold at least four forts in the Caribbean. Eleuthera, Gibara, Navassa, you name it. That's a lot of sailing, and little to do but sing" Billy shrugs, adjusting a knot. "I hear every man owes his life and freedom to Kenway on that ship. Closest-knit bunch of pirates in the Caribbean, I'd wager."

"Doesn't bode well for us" John shares a grim look with Billy at that. "And add in the fucking Pearl to that... We're sitting aboard a brewing disaster." The Pearl is a variable John isn't comfortable with,  from whichever angle he looks at it. It is a question mark, a dark smudge on a map, the sunspot on the face of a watch to make it impossible to make out the time. Billy shares his sentiments on the matter, John thinks, although they're very much the opposing sides of the same coin here. 

"What'd you tell the men, anyways?" Billy asks.

"You weren't there? I lured them in with cheap women and cheap rum, my friend. Do you remember the last shore leave we had?"

Billy draws up his eyebrows in agreement, and opens his mouth to answer, when the tune is cut short by a piercing whistle and a cry. 

"Land ho!"

"Land ho" John repeats, somewhat forlorn, and goes - limps - to fetch the Captain.

 

The Assassins. Flint slams the door behind him.

The last two days were spent inside a brewing thundercloud, he feels, and not even the rum is enough to break the weight of it. For the last two days he's been searching for a way out of this situation. He knows why he can't find it, he knows, and he rages.

The fucking Assassins. He lies back against the wall on his cot, one foot on the floor, the other drawn up to rest an elbow on the knee. There's the bottle of rum from earlier clutched in his hand, what little's left sloshing in the bottom of it.

Kenway left, true, but he left behind him the rustling of his robes. He left behind the hiss of a hidden blade, the silence of movement, the darkness of his cowl. The Assassin presence that, if you are made aware of, cannot be overlooked. 

The pain is almost too much to bear, but he manages it, if only just. He remembers the Assassins all too well, and he remembers the Templar bloodshed.

Flint knows it is not the situation he needs a way out of. It is a good prospect, what Kenway had propositioned, and his men are going to be eager for their extended shore leave. If Blackbeard remains dead, they will come out of this financially a lot better off, and they'll have struck a major blow to the Templars.

It is not the situation. It is his ghosts he's running away from, would run away from if he found a rational excuse not to plunge into this.

Kenway tore open a lot more than one wound, but the one Adéwalé punctuated their reasoning with is the deepest of them all.

He remembers how the only person that stayed in the drawing room when he and Thomas and Miranda presented their plan was Lord Peter Ashe. Ashe and Thomas had the Brotherhood to connect them - only for that to go to ruin. Only for Templar greed to poison it all.

Lord Governor Peter Ashe was born, the most potent Templar this side of the world, his power won through betrayal of what he'd sworn to protect. Flint has seen that settled, although he'll admit it was not entirely Assassin virtue that drove him to it. If he's honest with himself, not in the least bit was it Assassin virtue.

See, he himself was always a bit unhinged, a bit oddly put together behind his charades of training and propriety, and he'd have been a liability for the Brotherhood, and so, he never made Assassin. He was a good ally to the cause, a valuable asset always, at least up until the point Alfred Hamilton ruined their lives. Then...

Then he let loose the rampant devil inside him. And so, Captain Flint was born, and while James is still in there, he is far more James Flint now, has been for a decade, than he is James McGraw. The reason he hates Flint so much is not because it's a persona, a necessary evil - it's because Flint was always a part of him, and will always be. And after the loss of Miranda... 

There is a knock at the door, and it creaks open. The bottle of rum finds its target on the doorframe, shatters against the wood with a wet splash, and the shards roll across the floorboards. 

John Silver pops his head out from behind the door and scans Flint's surroundings first, no doubt checking to see if Flint has more ammunition to chuck at him. 

"Leave me the fuck alone" Flint grunts out, his voice gruff and a lot more hoarse than he'd have expected it. He wonders absently whether there's tears in his eyes.

"Oh, trust me, Captain, I would, but there's land ahead" Silver says, and for once his tone is less mocking than usual. He beats a hasty retreat, and Flint spares another moment for his ghosts before he stands to follow.

It is time to be the unflappable captain again, and it is not the time for grief now. It is never the time for grief, as it seems, but that is the way of it, isn't it? He smooths a hand over his beard, another down his coat, and as he steps out into the sunlight, he is nothing more or less than he always is - the Captain Flint of the Walrus, unflappable and immovable.

"Ready a longboat" he says, and Billy scurries off to relay his orders. "I want you there" Flint turns to John, and John nods, not surprised by that at all. Not that he'd want to miss this, Flint thinks with a huff.

He glances over to the Jackdaw anchored a few hundred yards away, Kenway and Adéwalé already sitting in a launch, rowing themselves over to the pier. Piece of work, this'll be - Flint doesn't even know if they'll find Sparrow here or not, but it's a fair bet, and he's learnt to trust Assassin intelligence over the years. But if they do find him here - convincing him is another matter entirely.

 

The muffled roar of Tortuga reaches them over the waves, and they row in silence. It is dusk, just after sunset, and as Tortuga never sleeps, it is never quiet. The torches are lit one by one, the windows blink to life, and as they get closer, the buzzing and the din sharpens into cries of pain and pleasure, the shattering of glass and crack of pistols fill their ears.

"The Pearl's anchored over there" Edward says after a stretch of silence. "Sparrow is here."

Flint and John step onto the jetty. Kenway simply nods, and starts up towards town without another word. Not that Flint minds, of course - far better a partner that's a miser of words than one who cannot ever shut up.

No doubt they're headed for the tavern, just up this street, and even if they don't find Sparrow there, the place must be teeming with information, not to mention a cup of rum that Flint desperately needs. However, before they even reach the building, a figure stumbles through the door backwards.

"You, sir, are a lyin' cur and I wish no affiliation with this establishment" the figure slurs.

"Strangely eloquent for a drunkard" John comments. Flint and Kenway share a look.

"Sparrow!"

At Flint's booming voice, the figure plops to the ground and turns his head. The captain's hat on his head is askew, and there's a wealth of dreadlocks flying around his face as the rum-hazy dark eyes find their focus. The figure - Sparrow, evidently - holds up a single finger, as if prompting them to wait, and the four of them do as he clambers off the ground. He stands, swaying in place, but his legs are steady. It is only from the waist up as he lilts back and forward, swinging his arms and flapping his sleeves. The sole finger is still up, and he tips his hat into place with it.

Jack Sparrow forms two circles with both thumbs and pointer fingers, sways towards them, and says a single word.

"Nnno."

With that, he promptly spins in place, and sashays off in the other direction, up the street.

"That went well" John says, tilting his head as he looks after the strange figure.

"Are you never quiet?" Adéwalé asks him, but Silver's reply is lost to Flint as he is watching Kenway load a gun and fire it at the heels of Sparrow.

"Get back here, Sparrow!" He says, and Sparrow stops, although he makes no move to come back other than to turn and grimace at them. He draws his hands up and deepens his frown.

Flint sighs and shakes his head as he starts up the street after him. The others follow.

"Kenway. Flint. Adelle." He nods to them respectively, seemingly ignorant of the piercing look Adéwalé sends him. "Who's the mermaid?" He frowns, looking at John, and the confusion is somewhat comical on his face as he scrunches his nose.

"Where's your crew?" Flint asks him, resigning himself to be the voice of reason here.

"Prob'ly off with the pigs" Sparrow slurs, and shakes his hat off his head. He bends down to fetch it, almost keeling over in the process, and dusts it off before plopping it back on his head, askew as ever. He tugs out a compass from only God knows where, looks at it, then points. "The Pearl's there" he smiles a sappy grin towards the bay.

"We saw."

"Three sheets to the wind, Flint, you might as well talk to the goat over yonder" Kenway says, tilting his chin towards the pen off the street.

"We'll try again when he'll have sobered up" Flint concedes the point, grabbing Sparrow by the elbow and tugging him back to port with a weary sigh. They row Jack Sparrow back to the Jackdaw, and while that doesn't sit well with Flint, he sees no reason to actively try and resist it.

"Tomorrow, we'll talk" he says to Kenway by way of farewell, and he doesn't have to look over at John to know he will follow when he walks off the deck and drops into a longboat.

Tomorrow, they'll talk.

 

Jack comes to with a mighty headache on an unfamiliar cot. Knowing better than to try and move his head in the next ten minutes, he runs his palms along the edge of it, and sniffs the air.

It is not the Pearl.

It doesn't quite smell like it, does it?

No, no. It smells of, well, less rum, more gunpowder. Not to mention the fact that he has no recollection of getting back to the Black Pearl. And, well, if he did get back to it, surely he wouldn't be lying on this cot, would he?

He sniffs just a couple more times to be absolutely certain, but this is not the Pearl.

The ten minutes have passed, and perhaps this is hasty, but he levers himself off the cot and staggers to stand.

The world isn't spinning more than it usually does, which is good, and the floorboards are steadily thrumming against his feet, rocking gently with the waves. His sea legs have never failed him in the face of a rum-induced haze, so with that, he takes his leave. Yes, well, he can't exactly stay here, can he?

Oh, but the hat. And the coat. The compass, his sword, his gun.

Jack sways around, scanning his surroundings. He's pretty sure he's heard something move in the corner, but he's not stupid enough to actually go and look in there, and seeing as his belongings aren't in the near vicinity, he steps towards the door with a last decisive sniff.

"They are under the bed" a deep voice rumbles, and a large black man melts out of the shadows with untold grace. Would you look at that, Jack didn't even have to check the corner for the corner to start talking.

The apparition takes solid form, the man stands and steps closer, his feet silent on the wood.

"Adelle?" Jack is taken aback by surprise as he recognises the man. He is pretty sure his name is not, in fact, Adelle, but that's the closest thing he can muster himself to remember. He does know a prostitute named Idelle, so he deems it close enough and that is the end of that thought.

"Come" the man says after a disgruntled snort, "the Captains will want to talk to you."

Jack leans forward without making a move to follow the man already halfway to the door. "But will there be rum?"

Adelle, whomever he is, turns back to him to regard him with a gaze Jack feels is a lot dirtier than the situation should warrant. If anyone, he should be the one sending the degrading gazes around, not vice versa. Alas, life has never been kind to Jack Sparrow - but luck all the more so, and although he cannot yet see a creative way out of the situation, the door would be a good start.

He sways backwards, positioning his hands on his hips for a moment before sweeping them towards the door. "Lead the way, Adelle" he grins his best grin - the one with all the golden teeth - and follows the moody pirate out the door.

It is a lovely little thing, the Jackdaw, Jack thinks as he smooths his hand across the railing as he follows Adelle - or whomever he is - towards what must be the captain's cabin. They were kind enough not to throw him in the brig, but he got second to last, in the very bow of the ship a small room for prisoners more valuable. Guest, as Adelle put it, but Jack has no delusions.

Well, he has several, true, but not about this, and not now.

Jack is not surprised to see that most of the sailors turn after him (and who can blame them?), but what catches his eye is that there is no helmsman at the wheel. It is Edward Kenway at the wheel.

In hindsight, Jack should have prepared himself for meeting Edward Kenway on his own damned ship, shouldn't he? Well.

As Kenway spots them, he lets another sailor take over, and he glides - yes, Jack knows, you shouldn't be able to glide so gracefully, what with the waves sloshing - he glides down the stairs, and leads them through the doors into his cabin.

An unfortunate "oh, no" escapes Jack at the sight that greets him. It is not an empty cabin that finds him, you know. Then again, even if it were empty of people, it wouldn't really be empty, because there's cargo stuffed in every nook and cranny. There is a dummy to the left with a set of robes on it, and Jack suppresses a snort at the vanity of it. There's also a model of the Jackdaw to the right, and Jack doesn't even consider chuckling at that, because if he had a model of the Pearl, he'd likely sleep with the thing.

Huh. Not a bad idea, but he has to save it for later, because in the center there is a large, round table, and around it sit two men.

Jack flashes a charming, gilded smile at them and promptly turns around to chuck himself in the ocean. There is no better alternative, not that he can see, and that speaks of the gravity of the situation.

What did he say about luck? Yeah, fuck that.

Unfortunately, before he takes as much as two steps, the steady strength of Adelle's arm stops him.

"Thank you, Adé" Edward Kenway nods at Adelle - Adé? - and circles the table to sit beside Captain James Flint and his right hand. Jack doesn't know the man, but he reminds him of a mermaid, and given his experiences with mermaids, he doesn't want to get to know him.

Honestly, Jack would much prefer if he didn't know any of them. Yeah, luck isn't always as kind to him as he likes to think.

He turns back to the table, but not before prodding one of Adelle's (Adé's, he supposes) pecks to see if they are as firm as they appear to be (they are).

"Gentlemen" he smiles again, because one more smile can't ever hurt. "What can I do for you?"

"Sit down, Sparrow, and shut up" Flint says. Rude, that, but perhaps understandable, given that the last time he saw Flint, Jack was sailing away with a sizeable portion of the Urca de Lima's gold won through sheer, pure-ass luck, nothing more. Not from anyone else's share but Flint's, too. He always knew that one was gonna bite him in the ass further down the line.

Jack sits, and although he knows the expression on his face is an affronted one, he makes no effort to school his features into something more polite. "Yes?"

"We have" Kenway clears his throat, "a proposition of sorts to make."

Jack draws up his eyebrows. Kenway gestures to the mermaid, who leans his elbows on the table and folds his hands as he starts speaking.

"I'll be short" he says. He sits a bit sideways on the chair, slanting, like he's missing some familiar weight on his left side, Jack notices.

"We need the Pearl, and you are going to lend it to us" the mermaid says. Jack huffs a laugh.

"Can I talk to someone else? No offense, mate" he spares a glance for him. Not like it looks like he took offense, but better to be on the safe side of things.

Flint and Kenway share a look but say nothing. 

"Oh, I'm told you'd have your name go down in history" the mermaid continues. Jack feigns nonchalance, but deep down, behind three layers of practiced masks there is anger building. They think they can play him like a fiddle - underestimation is always the biggest advantage.

The mermaid man smiles at him. "How would you like to save the world?"

Well. That is something even Jack can't resist the sound of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know about my typos!


End file.
